


Glittery Green Bills

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV), Magic Mike (Movies), True Detective
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Booty Shorts (Very Important Tag), Car Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Homophobia (mentioned), Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Obsession, Past Abuse, Romance, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8949502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Marcus starts wearing suits and Rolex watches to work. Sherlock just has to find out why. (Sherlock/Marcus centric, with cameos from other fandoms)





	1. Chapter 1

Marcus fidgeted uncomfortably.

Five minutes ago, Sherlock had sat down at his desk and stared at him, leaning on one hand as if settling in to watch a show. Marcus had resolutely ignored him, but this was getting ridiculous.

“You’ve been givin’ me the side-eye all day,” Marcus sighed, turned in his seat, and glared, “The hell is up with you?”

Sherlock sat there for a little while longer innocently shrugging, as if his behaviour was that of a normal, socially-conscious person, and he hadn’t been deliberately trying to get on Marcus’ nerves all day. Marcus knew that Sherlock was smart enough to watch and deduce without letting on that he was observing at all– which meant, obviously, that this was intentional.

“I like that suit.” Sherlock said, no elaboration forthcoming.

Marcus swallowed. He didn’t let the nervousness show, but he realised, suddenly, that he should’ve been more careful around Sherlock. He turned back to the computer and rolled his eyes as if he were simply annoyed, but he formed the new agenda of trying to figure out how much Sherlock had seen.

“Thanks,” Marcus replied flatly, “Thought it was time for a new one, y’know.”

He continued typing out his report. Sherlock continued to sit there, just staring, like some kind of living statue. Marcus felt the itch of annoyance creeping across his skin.

“ _What,_ Sherlock?”

“It’s a tailored piece. And quite expensive, I’d have to guess.”

Marcus huffed out an angry sigh, trying to keep calm. “So?”

“It’s well outside the range of price your income would usually dictate. Outside the Captain’s, even. As is your watch– a Rolex, no? And your newest haircut appears very luxurious, very trim. Whoever cut your hair is very good at their job.”

Marcus clenched his jaw. Flexed his fingers, continued typing.

“I’m interested as to how you afforded all these new perks.”

“You,” Marcus began, his voice raw, “are an asshole, is what you are.”

“I’m simply curious.”

“Ain’t you ever heard the proverb about what happened to the damn cat?” Marcus snapped. His voice fell from his mouth in a cutting, harsh way, and he licked absently at his lips, trying to keep his composure.

“Satisfaction brought it back, Marcus.”

“Go away.”

Sherlock sat still for a long moment. Just as Marcus was about to snap again, he suddenly stood, fast and sudden. He walked away, and Marcus glared after him.

_Shit,_ Marcus thought, rubbing at his jaw, _Shit, shit, shit._

He didn’t know how much Sherlock knew. But he was suspicious, which meant he’d figure it out soon.

And Marcus would have to deal with the fallout.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock fought his nature for as long as he could. But the truth was that the instinct to discover and deduce was an inherent part of him, and he couldn’t hold off the need to investigate whatever secret Marcus was keeping.

The new clothes, accessories, and personal styling suited Marcus well. Extremely well. In fact, Sherlock had paused, more than once, to look at him. Not to deduce or to analyse, just to look. To immerse himself in the hard line of Marcus’ jaw, his smooth skin, the line of his slender waist, the quick and clever way his eyes moved…

As if his own need to seek answers wasn’t enough, now there was this additional problem. This obsession. This carnal fixation. Sherlock had noticed, also, that Marcus was walking differently lately; more confidently, more assertively. He was laid-back, smiling with ease, confidently leading interrogations as if he no longer had anything on the earth to fear. He was unknowingly seducing Sherlock, mesmerising and captivating him.

Three times now, Sherlock had intentionally sought out acquaintances who looked like him. Smaller-statured, muscular African American men, who spoke with brusque accents and easy confidence. They were all satisfying in their own right, but none of them were what he needed, because none of them had been Marcus. He went to sleep at night dreaming of skin and sweat and lips, the low drawl of Marcus’ voice, and racing breaths in the quiet of a dark room. There was a warmth about those dreams; a sense of comfort and intimacy that went way beyond a simple sexual fantasy.

It took four weeks before he gave in.

 

***

 

It was very easy. Possibly, too easy.

While Marcus was busily at work Sherlock broke into his car. He had an older model, so it wasn’t difficult; Sherlock wondered whether Marcus’ mysterious new income would provide him with a new car soon, as well as all the suits and pageantry.

He slid into the car soothly, closed the door behind him, scanned the car.

There wasn’t much. A pack of mints, a water bottle, a gym bag in the back seat. He leaned back, undid the zipper on the bag, and looked inside.

And froze.

He couldn't quite believe what he was looking at, but it was undeniable. He stared for a little while longer at the contents of the bag, and swallowed thickly. Then, slowly, he closed the bag. Got out of the car. Walked back into the precinct.

"'Ey, Sherlock," Marcus called from his desk, "Come over here, gimme a hand with these files."

Sherlock nodded, hoping his face was as impartial and blank as he intended it to be.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The club was packed.

Glowing neon reflected off polished tables and glass, illuminating people in coloured lines of light; turning the crowd into a writhing cluster of anticipation. Everything was an intense mess of lace and leather and skin and eccentric outfits. Marcus watched all this from the back of the stage, arms crossed over his bare chest. It was amazing, how quickly someone could get used to walking around in skin-tight latex shorts that were barely anything more than a pair of underwear. He rested his hip against the wall, chewing on his lip.

“Everythin’ alright there?”

Marcus grinned as the Texan drawl approached him from behind, along with the wafting smell of a cigarette. Dallas was the man he answered to on nights like this; Dallas was his boss when his alliance wasn’t to Captain Gregson. In this other life Marcus lived. This nightlife, this secret.

Marcus was one of the few people who knew who Dallas really was, and who he’d been before setting up the club. He knew Dallas had been a cop, been one of the men who’d caught the serial killing 'Yellow King' and nearly paid for it with his life. But no one except cops seemed to remember or know about that case, so he'd never mentioned it, though it fascinated him sometimes; knowing he was working in a strip club run by a man reputed to have been one of the best detectives America had ever seen. The man, the legend, the mystery of Rustin Cohle. Hidden behind a slow-talking drawl and a toned, brown body. Marcus had never met Dallas' mysterious spouse, but he was smart enough to have figured out that it was Martin Hart.

Again, he had never said this to Dallas directly.

“Yeah,” Marcus replied quietly, “just thinkin’. Pretty sure someone at my day job has figured out what I do in my spare time. Or they’re close to workin’ it out.”

Dallas gave a quiet laugh from behind him. A large, long-fingered hand landed on Marcus’ bare shoulder. He felt the cold band of a wedding ring against his skin.

“Ah, you’ll be alright, man,” the hand patted him once, then disappeared, “no point worryin’ ‘bout the shit people say.”

Marcus nodded.

“Now, come on, get your game face goin’,” Dallas walked past Marcus with a grin on his face, dropping his cigarette on the ground and stepping on it with the edge of his cowboy boot, “we got a show to put on.”

Marcus grinned back at him, watching him as he stepped out onto the stage without one single moment of hesitation or nervousness. He supposed that, after everything Rustin Cohle had gone through, putting on a performance would seem like taking a holiday.

“Ladies and gentlemen, and everyone in between,” he began, his voice an amused and seductive drawl as he slipped a worn Stetson onto his head, “welcome!”

The crowd answered with a roar, and Marcus felt the beginnings of excitement settle into his stomach.

 

***

 

Sherlock had been wrestling with his conscience all day.

He’d cross-referenced the days that the  _Hart & Cohle _strip clubwas open with the days Marcus worked at the precinct, and come to the conclusion that Marcus worked on weekends, and on every second Friday night. Sherlock had considered the pros and cons with intense depth, worried about what consequences such an intrusion into Marcus’ private life would bring– but in all honesty he knew that the awareness of what Marcus was doing would be enough to propel him into action.

Just seeing the outfits in that gym bag had stunned him into a heated disbelief. The sailor piece. The leather. The red g-string. The satin briefs.

The idea of Marcus wearing those clothes kept him awake at night.

He needed to see Marcus dance like he needed oxygen, like he needed coffee, like he needed breakfast, like he needed mental stimulation and casework. In the same way that his existence depended on Watson being his friend, he needed Marcus as the warmth by his side, the pressure against his lips, the laugh that greeted him every morning.

It was scary, for him. Knowing that he wanted Marcus so deeply.

 

“Are you going out?”

Sherlock looked up at Watson from where he was sitting at the kitchen table, in a way that obviously showed he was stalling.

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock replied softly, looking down at his hands because he knew Watson saw just as much as he did– often more, if he was being honest.

“You’ve been acting off all day,” Watson said, walking over, her heels making confident noises against the floor, “what is it?”

Sherlock didn’t bother shrugging and producing a tirade of denials that she would see through. He simply looked up, and met her eyes steadily.

“I believe I may be falling in love, Watson,” he said, with more calmness than he felt, “it’s… frightening me.”

Watson sat down at the table, and watched him. She let the moment stretch out, a silence without superficiality or awkwardness. It was as deep and complex as their relationship.

“Because of Irene,” she said softly, “because of Moriarty.”

He nodded. She waited.

“I don’t know if I can say more." He added quietly, "Not now. Not... Not yet.”

She drew in a slow breath, let it out. Folded her hands in her lap.

“Are you going to tell them how you feel?”

He glanced towards the door. He thought of Marcus, thought of Moriarty and the lie of Irene Adler. Thought of all the things he'd heard in his meetings, all the mantras about moving forward and starting anew.

“Something like that,” he replied.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was so easy for Marcus to forget.

To forget the nightmares of his childhood, the days when he would be forced to wear extra layers of clothes just to hide his body and the bruises his drunken father had left on him, the days when he would look at his classmates and know that they too suffered the same abuse he dealt with nightly. The fact that Marcus’ father had the additional motivation of intrinsic homophobia made no difference. Him and all his friends had been living the same nightmare.

But every dream, he knew now, ended differently. He wasn’t destined to live out the same paths his friends had followed– or, least of all, the path his brother had followed. He was living a new life– his _own_ life. He was attractive, sensual, desired, and strong. He had a respectable job and, at night, he lived a life that was entirely about _him._ About what he wanted. About what made him feel _good._

And he did feel good. Because, up on the stage, all eyes were on him.

This was what power truly felt like.

 

***

 

Sherlock looked up at him.

Marcus slid down the pole, lifting his arms above his head in a graceful pose, running his fingers down the shiny metal. His chin was tipped towards his shoulder, eyes closed. An expression of private vulnerability that made a breath catch in Sherlock's throat. Somehow that glimpse of intimacy had heat pooling in Sherlock's abdomen, affecting him vastly more than anything else had thus far.

He felt dizzy.

Marcus was wearing the white satin briefs Sherlock had glimpsed in the gym bag. They were shimmering with the lights that illuminated the stage.

The moisture dried up in Sherlock’s mouth as Marcus flipped his body in one smooth motion, legs arcing towards the ceiling– he gripped the pole with his thighs, muscles hard and strong, spinning in a circle. Upside-down. Sherlock shuffled where he stood, swallowing thickly, fingers tugging at his singlet. He’d worn it to blend in; a dress shirt wouldn’t have fit the bill.

Marcus righted himself, sliding off the pole, planting bare feet on the ground. But he was dancing again, immediately, rising onto his toes as his hips grinded in a slow, continuous motion. His mouth was pulled into a mischievous grin that he directed at his audience; everyone around Sherlock screamed in delight, but Sherlock was frozen in place, unable to budge from where he stood. He knew, now, that this had been a mistake. He would never be able to look at Marcus the same way. Seeing him walk around the precinct, all he would be able to think about would be the sharp lines of his hips, the curve of his back and waist, the muscular roundness of his bare arms, the way glitter looked as it peppered his smooth skin…

A hand landed on Sherlock’s shoulder, and he stiffened.

Turning around, he found himself face-to-face with a tall man; his face was angular and elegant, with knowing eyes. He was wearing a leather jacket over a bare chest, matching leather pants clinging tight to his legs and enhancing his figure. A well-worn Stetson sat upon his head. He was dressed like a stripper, but the cold authority in his eyes told a different story; Sherlock tried to keep the shock from his face as he realised he was standing in front of Rustin Spencer Cohle. Sherlock had studied his methods and results in depth.

In other circumstances, he might’ve held out his hand for a genuinely impressed handshake.

“Come with me,” Mr Cohle ordered, the expression of his face communicating more than his voice could’ve, even if Sherlock had’ve been able to hear him above the music, “now.”

Sherlock didn’t let nervousness show on his face, but when Mr Cohle turned to go, Sherlock looked regretfully back at Marcus before following.

He wished he’d never followed Marcus here.

 

Sherlock followed him into a back room. It was an office, plain and sparsely furnished, nothing visible that would suggest it was the management room of a strip club.

The music faded to a hum and throb through the walls.

“Sit down,” Mr Cohle said gently, but his eyes were stern. Sherlock found him extremely difficult to read, and knew him by a ruthless and results-driven reputation; thus, he did exactly what he was told. Mr Cohle sat opposite him, in a chair that was bigger and more padded. He tilted his head back, looked at Sherlock with dark, impenetrable eyes. There was something ancient and knowing about him, even given the ridiculous hat and clothes he was dressed in. Sherlock wondered what horrors he'd seen, wondered what perspective he had on humanity after the Yellow King and Carcosa had left him so scarred. He wondered how the hell a man like that had come to own a  _strip club_ of all things.

Maybe there was refuge in the showmanship of it all.

“Is there a reason for this interview?” Sherlock asked, ensuring his voice was flat and calm. A man like Rustin Cohle did not change, and he knew that, if Mr Cohle was intending to interrogate him, he would have to play a careful game if he were to escape without breaking entirely.

Mr Cohle sat there for a long moment, unmoving. Sherlock held his gaze.

Eventually, Mr Cohle’s lips parted. He took a slow, patient breath, and then huffed out a lazy sigh. Sherlock tried to predict what he would say next, but found himself unable to guess, further than assuming this had something to do with Marcus.

“Oh no, friend,” Mr Cohle said eventually, his voice a drawling murmur, “this ain’t no interrogation. I’ve already figured out what I wanted to know.”

Sherlock nodded as if he understood. “And what’s that?”

“Marcus Bell, a young man in my employ, said to me that he suspected someone had found out about his job in this place,” Mr Cohle gestured vaguely around the room, “and that he was worried. It seems to me, Mr Holmes, that you are that person.”

Sherlock swallowed. “You know my name.”

Mr Cohle smiled, his eyes hooded. “And you know mine, I imagine.”

“…What do you want?”

“I want you to be smart.” Mr Cohle deadpanned, “It’s quite obvious you have more than friendly feelings for young Marcus. Don’t be stupid, and don’t be cruel. He thinks you’re out to expose him. Way I see it, you should tell him your real motivations instead.”

Sherlock felt a swell of irritation. “I’m not interested in being told what to do, Mr Cohle.”

Mr Cohle laughed dryly. “Fuck, man, call me Dallas. Ain’t no one ever called me Mr Cohle.”

“And why would you care what decision I make with regards to Marcus? You barely know him. As far as I can tell, Marcus has been working here for a little over two months. Hardly enough time to form an emotional attachment, wouldn’t you say?”

Mr Cohle grinned, as if impressed. Then, his smile faded a little, the light in his eyes dimming to something more sombre and thoughtful.

“Marcus is a lot like someone I know very well. It’ll take him a long time to accept certain things about himself.” He paused, smile disappearing entirely, face becoming almost melancholy, “You ought to be as honest with him as you can. For his sake.”

Sherlock met his eyes, and thought about the recorded violence between Rustin Cohle and Martin Hart in their younger days, the divorce that had followed, and the ten-year separation they’d endured before coming together again, and later engaging in a relationship. The implication behind Mr Cohle’s words hit Sherlock hard, and he let out a shocked breath as he realised what was being said.

“Do you mean to tell me that Marcus is–”

“I mean to tell you not to be _stupid,_ Mr Holmes, _”_ Mr Cohle interrupted him, “because, if I can see it, then the only reason you can’t is ‘cause you’re so blinded by your own feelin’s that you can’t see him clearly at all.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. Surely not. Surely he couldn’t have missed _that._

Mr Cohle gestured for the door. “Go on, now. Reckon you should leave and have yourself a good think about what to do next.”

Sherlock stood, and tried to find something to say.

“It’s all good, man,” Mr Cohle drawled with a knowing grin, “No need to thank me.”

Sherlock stared at him with something akin to disbelief, before turning on his heel and fleeing the room.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock went home.

Watson wasn’t there, thankfully, to see his panicked expression and his hurried movements. He immediately ran upstairs to his bedroom, closed the door hard behind him, staring ahead with a fixed kind of disbelief in his eyes.

This newest revelation had propelled him into a stunned trance. To think that Marcus Bell, of all people, was interested in men; Marcus, who Sherlock had thought he knew so well. He supposed it oughtn’t surprise him all that much, by now– after all, there hadn’t been one single part of him that had imagined Marcus was stripping as means of earning extra cash. Given he’d affirmed the latter impossibility with his own eyes, he supposed anything else could very well be possible.

Sherlock realised he was holding his breath. He sucked in a lungful of air, shook his head, and rubbed his face with his hands. His shoulders were slumped, his head bowed, his limbs stiff and rigid with stress.

This made everything harder. He’d come to terms with how he felt towards Marcus, and had been able to cope with this reality only because it was an imagined life, a love that would never play itself out in reality. He’d held his affection for Marcus at arm’s length, and suffered in silence because he’d been certain they would only ever be friends. Learning that Marcus was attracted to men– if Sherlock could even take the word of Rustin Cohle, though he felt he could- was the worst thing that could’ve happened.

Because it meant that what Sherlock wanted was now a possibility. It meant that he had a choice to make, a potential relationship to gamble on. And he _didn’t want_ to have to make that decision. He didn’t want to throw himself into the path of heartbreak. Even if Marcus didn’t hurt him, didn’t tear him to pieces the way Moriarty had, Sherlock knew he was a critical man. A judgemental man, who often did not understand boundaries. He knew that he would be as fundamentally unsuited to a relationship as a person could be.

But…

“Damn,” he hissed in the silence of the room, “ _Damnit,”_

He knew what he wanted.

He imagined how Marcus’ skin would feel under his hands, glitter rubbing against his palms, sweat making touch slick and intimate. He imagined a private dance at the _Hart & Cohle _club, Marcus’ hips swaying in a provocative dance, his head tipped to the side with that shy intimacy he’d let show onstage, teeth biting into his lip as he grinned, sarcastic and wilful even when he was virtually naked, body illuminated in flashes by the coloured lights-

He reached down, swayed his body into the touch of his hand, imagined Marcus against him. Tipped his head back against the hard surface of the door, breathed out shakily. He was frightened by this. By the helplessness he felt, the inevitability of what he would have to do next, the intensity of the desire that hummed through his body, pooling in his stomach like something sinful, forbidden. He undid his belt, his pants, slid his hand lower. He'd never touched himself before, when he was thinking of Marcus. He knew he was giving in, now, and that meant something significant. Something irreversible.

It meant he didn’t have a choice.

He remembered all the times he'd allowed acquaintances to fuck him into the mattress, dominant and strong, and he wanted Marcus to do that to him. Wanted Marcus to rebel against him in the cocky, headstrong way he always had– but this time with his body, with his hands, with his demands and unrelenting opinions. A mouth at his ear. Lips on his neck, biting, sucking, leaving bruised brands that Sherlock would wear like a string of pearls. He wanted Marcus to flaunt himself like he had onstage, shove his confidence and attractiveness in Sherlock's face and crush him under it. He wanted to worship at the altar of Marcus' perfection. He wanted to be nothing, next to this beautiful man. He wanted to do whatever Marcus told him to. He would be satisfied just to kiss that tantalising skin, and receive nothing more.

In the quiet of the room, a whisper of a moan escaped Sherlock's mouth. With one hand, he reached up, covered his mouth as his other hand moved faster, faster, faster-

He imagined Marcus was doing this to him. He imagined Marcus had pushed him up against the wall and started  _touching him,_ whispering filthy things, pressing that perfect body against Sherlock-

"Marcus," He breathed, " _Marcus,"_

He came, blinking and gasping, and a broken sound was muffled by his palm as he craned his neck. He stood there, shaking.

Eventually, the bliss receded. He looked down at himself, and felt a swell of exasperation. Jerking off, jeans around his ankles, leaning against his bedroom door. He hadn't even made it to the fucking bed. It had been a very, very long time since he'd allowed himself to reach this level of obsessiveness, of desire. 

 _Now,_ he thought glumly,  _I really don't have a choice._

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock found Marcus sitting at his usual lunch spot, in a small café called Dianne’s Diner. He reflected, for a moment, on the fact that he was aware where Marcus’ regular lunch venue was at all. It was a dangerous thought, one that led to considering how deeply he was aware of Marcus’ habits and schedules– and how he may, by some people, be considered a kind of stalker. But the truth was that Marcus was no special exception; Sherlock knew the habits and schedules of everyone in his life… which, really, wasn’t any sort of saving grace from the label of ‘stalker’.

He took a deep breath, and marched inside. No point beating about the bush. Marcus was intelligent enough that he’d discover the truth eventually on his own, regardless of what Sherlock did. Better to reveal himself on his own terms. Better to engage Marcus, and test his reaction for any sign of interest.

Sherlock walked right up to Marcus’ table, pulled out the chair, and sat down.

Marcus frowned, swallowing a mouthful of his Caesar Salad. Their eyes met, and a long moment of supremely awkward silence followed. Sherlock realised, of course, that it would be fortuitous for him to break it– but he found himself curiously unable to speak. He swallowed, and found his throat was tight with nervousness.

“…Can I help you?”

Sherlock nodded briskly, determined to ignore his anxiety, and folded his hands on the table. “I have a confession.”

Marcus shook his head and held up a hand. “If you did somethin’ illegal, I don’t wanna know-”

“I went to _Hart & Cohle _last night.”

The reaction was immediate. Marcus’ face slackened with shock, and then immediately tightened with anger. His eyes widened with fear, his mouth parting on a shocked exhale. He held the fork loosely in his hand, having completely forgotten about eating. Sherlock held his stare, and tried to keep his nerve. He had to watch Marcus very, very carefully.

“I thought you were very good,” Sherlock continued, as if unfazed, “I enjoyed the show.”

“If you,” Marcus began, his voice lowered to a threatening whisper as he fearfully glanced around the room, “If you tell _anyone_ -”

“Why would you assume that I’d betray you in such a way, after all our years of friendship?”

Marcus clenched his jaw, some of the fear fading from his eyes; he was a cop, he could tell Sherlock wasn’t lying. The fear, however, was replaced by more anger.

“Then why the hell are you bringin’ it up to me?” He demanded.

“There’s no shame in it,” Sherlock said, dodging the question, “You know I’ve always had a supportive view of exotic dancers and prostitutes-”

“I ain’t a _fuckin’_ prostitute, Sherlock!” Marcus hissed, rage filling his expression.

Sherlock felt a swell of panic. “No, I wasn’t- That wasn’t what I meant, Marcus, of course. I was simply saying…”

The genuine nature of Sherlock’s rebuke must’ve been evident in his manner, because– to his immense relief– Marcus calmed down somewhat, breathing in deeply, and then letting out a long, steadying sigh. He was still angry, but not furious.

“But, yes, as I said before,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “there’s no shame in it.”

Marcus sat back in his chair, shaking his head. He poked at his salad, clearly stalling. His downcast eyes and miserable expression very clearly communicated an intense feeling of embarrassment.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “maybe not to you. I was raised a little different, I s’pose.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Do you seriously believe my father was at all supportive of strippers? Or any form of employment that did not necessitate a suit?”

Marcus looked up, and then smiled timidly. “…Good point.”

“What you do, Marcus, is an art form. You have a stunning physique; why not take advantage? If I looked like you, and could dance the way you can, I would be proud– not ashamed.”

Marcus frowned quizzically at those obviously suggestive compliments, but then shrugged, as if to dismiss Sherlock’s comments as a statement of fact; Sherlock cursed his own aptitude for crossing boundaries. It was fairly typical of him to be blunt about matters, which didn’t assist him at all with trying to flirt. People just assumed he was… being himself.

“I am proud. I guess.” Marcus hedged, still jabbing at his salad, “It ain’t about confidence, or enjoyin’ it. It’s just… people judge, y’know?”

“And you want to avoid conflict.”

Marcus sighed, gazing morosely down at his lunch. “Yeah. I do. Not everyone’s like you, y’know. People are shit.”

Sherlock nodded with a tense kind of sympathy, tightening his hands in a tense grip where they were folded. He tried to decide how to proceed, but inexperience made him nervous. The last person he’d flirted with was _Irene,_ by god’s sake, and she had turned out to be a false mask obscuring a manipulative mastermind of the highest persuasion. That tended to leave a man with a few emotional scars.

Just as he was drawing breath to speak, Marcus’ head whipped up, and he stared up with wide, shocked eyes.

“Hold up, did you say you _enjoyed_ watchin’ me?”

Sherlock swallowed thickly, his brain– for a moment– emptying of coherent thought. He got over his momentary shock, and then gathered his wits.

“Yes,” he said, quietly, “immensely. I think you’re… quite attractive.”

He hadn’t meant to say it outright. But the words were out, and he couldn’t take them back. He watched the reactions roll across Marcus’ face; the stunned widening of his eyes, the loosening of his jaw, the halting of his breaths. Sherlock knew that he himself must be displaying a wide array of emotional responses, and he tried to calm himself by tapping distractedly on the table. It didn’t work in the slightest.

Then, it happened. A glint of something else showed in Marcus’ eyes, a quick flick of his gaze up and down Sherlock’s upper body; _there,_ there it was. Sherlock kept the smile off his face by a gargantuan effort. He knew how to deduce the truth, and the evidence before him said that Marcus was, at some conscious level, interested.

Now, his game plan had to change. All he needed to do was water a seed that was already planted.

“…The hell am I supposed to do with that information, Sherlock?” Marcus asked flatly.

“Give me permission.”

Marcus swallowed, his throat working with the motion. “…To do…?”

“To watch you. While you dance.”

Marcus blinked, tightening his grip around the fork.

“You’re… You’re makin’ this weird.”

“Not really,” Sherlock countered quickly.

Marcus stared at him, and Sherlock held his gaze. The moment stretched on, until Marcus blinked again, shaking himself out of his reverie– but Sherlock had seen the look in his eyes. He’d seen the hesitation, the moment where Marcus had considered it. The split second, the flash of self-doubt.

“No. I ain’t,” Marcus began, his voice a scratchy whisper, “I ain’t… givin’ you permission to watch me.”

Sherlock nodded briskly, only just managing to keep from grinning. He’d won. He knew how people worked, and Marcus _was_ interested.

“As is your right.” He said, standing. “Sorry to disturb you, Marcus.”

He walked away, and could feel Marcus watching him as he went.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Marcus sat in the dressing room, staring blankly ahead into the mirror.

He could hear the yelling and chanting of the audience, and the upbeat music. He knew that he had to leave, soon, and get out onto that stage with the other dancers. He knew he had to be convincing. He knew he had to be sexy, poised, and powerful. He had to strut around in tiny latex booty shorts and a shiny leather police cap, and swing around a pole like stripping was his only concern in life. Usually, he loved the cop dance routine, purely for the irony of it. But, tonight…

He didn’t know if he could do it.

Rust appeared in the mirror behind Marcus, dressed in an unbuttoned plaid shirt, his Stetson, and denim shorts that made his ass look unfairly amazing. Marcus wondered about him, sometimes– how the hell did a man nearing fifty manage to look that great?

Rust held his arms out. “The fuck, Marcus?”

Marcus sighed, and put his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Dallas. I’m almost ready to go, I just… I’ll be fine soon.”

“Well, you’ve got fifteen fuckin’ minutes to get ‘fine.”

“I know, I know. I’m good, my outfit’s all ready and everything, I just… need a second.”

There was a moment of silence before Rust sighed, and pulled out the chair beside him. Marcus looked up over him, confused, but Rust only glared back dryly, busying himself with finding a cigarettes and lighter in the mess that cluttered the desk. Marcus was pretty sure that there were a few dozen lighters floating around the club, purely for the purposes of sustaining Rust’s habit.

“Get to talkin’, then, come on.”

Marcus sighed, embarrassed. “No, Dallas, you don’t need to worry-”

“For fuck’s sake, Marcus. Call me Rust.”

Marcus gaped at him, and Rust laughed dryly.

“You’re a cop, Marcus, of course you know who I am. What, you think I’m stupid or somethin’?”

Marcus closed his mouth, feeling like an idiot. “…No.”

“Well, good.” Rust lit his cigarette, and then threw the lighter back onto the desk, “What’s on your mind?”

“…You’re my boss, you don’t need to listen to my problems.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the lead in the next act, and this is a fuckin’ strip club, so stop acting all professional and shit, and tell me what’s wrong.”

Marcus sighed, and looked back into the mirror. He stared at himself, at the curve of his bare shoulders, at his face, at the glitter that shone on his skin. He wondered what the hell he was doing, working at a strip club; he wondered who the fuck he was becoming. He thought about Sherlock, about how their friendship would never be the same again. He wondered if any of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t have started working at _Hart & Cohle. _ 

“That friend of mine that I mentioned,” he said, eventually, “He did figure it out.”

Rust nodded, pulling the cigarette from between his lips with this thumb and forefinger. “He blackmailin' you?”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

“What, then?”

Marcus swallowed. His throat felt tight, and he had the sudden impulse to wash the glitter from his skin. He felt claustrophobic and exposed at the same time. “He… wants to watch me dance.”

Rust sat still for a beat, holding his cigarette. After a pause, he brought it to his lips again, eyes hooded and unreadable.

“Maybe,” Rust drawled, eventually, sucking in a lungful of smoke, “he likes ya.”

Marcus remembered how nervous Sherlock had been, how he’d fidgeted and hesitated and tried to flirt with all the subtlety of a bull on a rampage. He remembered Sherlock saying the words, _I have a confession,_ and wondered how long this had been going on. How long Sherlock had felt this way.

“I think he does.” Marcus met his own eyes in the mirror, and felt lost. “Never would’ve thought it, but… Christ. He does.”

Rust blew out a plume of smoke. “The fuck’s the issue, then? You ain’t into him, I’m guessin’.”

Marcus watched himself in the mirror, and then took a slow, unsteady breath.

“The issue,” he said, “is that I think I _am_ into him.”

He was so preoccupied with staring into his own eyes, trying to find answers in the damn mirror, that he missed the small smile that flitted over Rust’s face.

“And when did you reach this conclusion?”

“…When I realised I wanted him to watch me dance tonight.”

There was a pause. Then, Rust laughed. He stood, hooking a thumb into his jeans, clapping a hand down on Marcus’ shoulder.

“You want some advice?”

Marcus looked up at him hopelessly. “Sure.”

“Don’t fuckin’ overthink it.”

He turned to go, throwing the cigarette to the side, hips swaying. Marcus blinked after him.

“And get the fuck ready. Your ass needs to be up on stage swingin’ from side to side in five minutes. Got it?”

Marcus found himself grinning. “…Yeah. You got it, Rust.”

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

It had been four days.

Sherlock was beginning to think that his gamble hadn’t paid off, and had– in fact– been the biggest mistake of his life and his career. Marcus had refused to look Sherlock in the eye since that day in the café, and had only spoken in short, clipped sentences. It was bad enough that Gregson had pulled Sherlock aside and, with a tense worry in his eyes, asked Sherlock, “What did you do?”

Sherlock had tensed his jaw, and wished he could lie convincingly. “Nothing you need to worry about, Captain.”

Gregson hadn’t liked that answer. His face had hardened, his posture stiffening into a more aggressive stance.

“If it’s affecting the performance of my best guys, then yeah, I do need to worry.”

“Captain-”

“Don’t.” Gregson had held a hand out, shaking his head. “Don’t bullshit me. Just fix this. Work out whatever your issue is with Marcus, and sort out your priorities. People are _dying,_ and we have to find their killers. _That’s_ what important.”

Sherlock swallowed, feeling selfish, feeling angry that he couldn’t try to fight for what he wanted without destroying everything else. Human relationships were such fragile things, and he reconsidered the lure of isolation with renewed interest. At least that way he’d never have this problem again. At least then he wouldn’t fall in love.

“Alright,” he responded, certain that he was lying, “I’ll try.”

 

***

 

Marcus absentmindedly unlocked his car, head bent as he looked down at his phone. His hips were cocked to the side, one leg bent at the knee. Sherlock’s eyes travelled up and down his body, drawn to his waist, to the curve of his ass. He thought of neon lights, glitter, and the passionate kind of devotion he’d felt threading through his veins as he looked up at that stage. He thought of old-time religion and Christian revivals, crowds dancing with manic faith and a ceaseless need for satisfaction and safety. He thought about what it meant to be devout. He thought of brown skin and tempting lips.

“Marcus,” he said, softly.

Marcus turned around, his hand on the car door. His expression immediately closed off, his eyes becoming blank and guarded.

“I wanted to say…” Sherlock began, glancing down at the ground as he tried to find the right words, “…I made a mistake, with what I said to you, the other day, and I’d like to-”

“Just shut up for a second, would you?”

Sherlock looked up, confused by the tone of Marcus’ voice. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded… tired. He looked it, too; his collar was slightly askew, and there were bags under his eyes. It was rare to see Marcus with even a hair out of place, and Sherlock’s chest tightened with concern.

“You look as if you haven’t been sleeping,” he observed gently.

Marcus glared. “Thought I said ‘shut up’, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded obediently. “Very well.”

Marcus leaned against his car, and dropped his head into his hands. He took a long, deep breath, and Sherlock had to bite back his concern. He had expected a confrontation; he had expected anger, frustration, and discomfort. Of all the ways he imagined this might go, he hadn’t visualised the anxiety that Marcus seemed to be displaying.

“I ain’t lookin’ for your apologies, Sherlock,” Marcus eventually muttered, into his hands.

“…You’ve expressed that sentiment in the past, Marcus. I believe last time the phrase you used was, ‘I’d rather not see you around here’. If that is the case-”

“I ain’t finished yet– will you let me speak?”

Sherlock nodded, folding his hands behind his back, so that he could clench his fists in a way that wouldn’t be abundantly obvious. “I only meant to say that, if you want me to leave, I will. You are employed here, after all. This precinct is your home.”

“What?” Marcus demanded as he looked up, his expression alarmed. “Fuck, no, Sherlock– don’t _leave,_ ”

 “I will, if you want me to-”

“I don’t want you to leave, goddamnit!”

Sherlock fell silent. Marcus’ face was full of intense emotion, his eyes wild with annoyance and– surprisingly– worry. Sherlock tried to decipher what Marcus was trying to say, tried to figure out what could possibly be making Marcus this nervous. He found himself unable to guess, before he remembered the flash of interest Marcus had shown in the café; he considered, suddenly, that Marcus’ recent withdrawal may have been due to his own feelings, rather than his discomfort with being confessed to.

“Then what _do_ you want?” Sherlock asked quietly.

Marcus’ expression softened, eyes nervous. He licked slowly at his bottom lip, and drew a slow breath.

“…I want you to watch me dance.”

Sherlock felt his heart thud. Their eyes met, and no one spoke.

He wanted to pull Marcus into his arms, kiss him hard. He wanted to hold Marcus against his car, press their hips together, slide his hands onto Marcus’ waist and taste his mouth– but he knew Marcus wasn’t ready for that, and would regret it if they did that here, where everyone from the precinct could see. Instead, he stepped forward, slowly, and reached out a hand. Marcus was looking into his eyes, lips parted, waiting for the kiss.

He drew his thumb slowly, gently, down the line of Marcus’ jaw. It was a gesture so light, so tender, that it was barely there; but Marcus froze at the touch of skin, almost shivering with it. Sherlock held his gaze.

“Alright,” he replied, the word barely a breath of sound. Then his hand fell, and the moment was swiftly ended.

Marcus was still frozen to the spot, eyes wide.

“What,” he asked, his voice a raw whisper, his smile nervous, “you ain’t gonna kiss me?”

Sherlock smiled, and stepped away. “Not here.”

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

The night passed in flashes of heat and movement. Marcus looked desperately out into the audience as he performed, his mouth open, panting with the exertion of dancing; his hips never stopped swaying, and his every movement was perfected and graceful, liquid excitement pumping through his veins as he spun around the metal pole. He knew Sherlock was there. He knew Sherlock was watching.

Tonight was a reminder of why he’d started this; why he’d begun dancing at all.

This was his neon paradise. His kingdom of eroticism and fantasy, where he could be whoever he wanted, could be sensual and filthy and unapologetically gay. He could be the young man his homophobic father had never allowed him to be. And now, finally, it was _perfect–_ because Sherlock was here, in that writhing mass of invisible bodies, hidden by the lights that lit the stage and blinded Marcus to anyone but the other dancers. This was the final puzzle piece. The absolute victory, the triumph of his sexuality as a part of him that had been made real, made valid by mutual attraction; now it wasn’t just a hidden part of him, a denied thing, a buried secret.

Now, he was free.

He remembered the touch against his face, the stroke of skin across his jaw. Sherlock’s face so close, his lips parted. So, so close. Not close enough.

And he wanted it.

 

***

 

He stumbled backstage, feeling hysterical with endorphins, dizzy with exertion. He collided with Rust, who steadied him with a hand on his arm.

“Fuckin’ hell, Marcus, you’re gonna fall over at that rate. Slow the hell down.”

Marcus shook his head, and pushed him away. He had to do this now. He had to, or he never would.

He threw on a too-big sweater over his latex shorts, grabbed his gym bag, and left the club. He walked to his car, threw the bag in the back seat, turning to go find Sherlock–

Suddenly, there he was. Standing in the parking lot, dressed in a loose singlet and black jeans, doc marten boots laced tight up his calves. His eyes were alight, and Marcus had never seen him like this, had never seen him so emotional and expressive. He was moving, immediately, and so was Marcus; they collided in a mess of hands and tongues. Touching, tasting, grinding and grabbing, like they couldn’t get enough of each other. Marcus realised how long he’d wanted this, how long he’d been pushing this attraction to the back of his mind. He clutched the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulled his hair, moaned when Sherlock’s hand slipped beneath his sweater to press against the small of his back. They were exposed under neon streetlights in the empty parking lot, and Marcus knew people would be coming out soon, knew people would see, but he didn’t care.

“Come home with me,” Sherlock breathed, “come home with me, Marcus,”

“Later.” Marcus fumbled behind him, opened the car door. He tugged Sherlock with him as he stumbled backwards, and their eyes met, gazes blazing and delirious with the intensity of it all. “Fuck, I need you now.”

He fell backward into the car, and Sherlock immediately followed, clumsily slamming the door closed behind him. His legs were on either side of Marcus’ thighs, and their bodies were pressed together. Marcus clutched him, pulled him close, and kissed him like he hadn’t kissed anyone since he was sixteen.

“Marcus,”

“Just fucking kiss me,” Marcus gasped, “shut the fuck up and kiss me.”

Sherlock did. His mouth was hot, his hands were large and strong, and Marcus tried to touch every inch of skin he could get his fingers against. He arched upwards, and Sherlock spread his knees, used what little leverage he had to grind downwards, his body moving faster and faster by the second–

Marcus yanked at the button on Sherlock’s jeans, pulled his pants open. In the same moment, he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pressed up against it, thrusting his latex-clad pelvis into the warmth of his skin.

Sherlock’s mouth opened in a shocked gasp as Marcus stroked his cock.

“Touch me,” Marcus whispered, “touch me, Sherlock,”

Sherlock grabbed the edges of the latex shorts and tugged them down Marcus’ thighs.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

When they were done, the world didn’t come crashing down. Marcus had thought he might experience some kind of crisis, or perhaps even an intense emotional breakdown due to the deep-seated psychological scars that his father had left him with regards to his sexuality.

But that… didn’t happen.

Instead, Marcus breathed against the warm skin of Sherlock’s neck, closed his eyes and tilted his face towards him; he felt lips touch his own, in a gentle, soft kiss, and he was content to just lie there. He felt Sherlock moving, heard the quiet jangle of a belt, and he reached down unhurriedly to pull up his shorts. He felt sticky, and his back was pressed uncomfortably against the uneven seats in the back of his car– but none of that mattered, because Sherlock’s bare chest was pressed against his, and one of the people he trusted most in the world was kissing him in the damp, foggy heat of this post-orgasmic haze. He felt bliss. He felt satisfaction he’d never before imagined.

“You know,” Marcus breathed, afraid to say it too loudly, “I’ve never kissed a man before.”

Sherlock went very, very still. He lifted himself up on his elbows, and looked down at Marcus with an expression that would– to almost anyone else on the planet– appear blank, even bored. But Marcus knew how to see behind Sherlock’s façade. Even in the darkness, he could see the sheer panic flare in Sherlock’s eyes.

“…What?” Sherlock asked.

Marcus smiled, laughed quietly. He lifted one arm behind his head, got comfortable beneath Sherlock’s weight. He felt euphoric.

“Aw, come on,” Marcus smirked, “don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

Sherlock blinked. Again, his face seemed composed, but he was anything but.

“And… what we just did, was that…?”

“My first time. With a man.” Marcus licked at his lips, nodded. “That okay?”

Sherlock blinked again, and did not reply. Marcus felt his exhilaration diminish with every passing second of silence, and his smile faded.

“…Say somethin’, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. His carefully arranged blank expression was crumbling, and suddenly Marcus found himself looking into Sherlock’s eyes with nothing but honesty between them; he’d never seen Sherlock’s guard so completely down. And what he saw made his world stop.

Sherlock’s eyes were soft with affection, his face mournful with some kind of profound empathy. He knew why Marcus had never touched a man. He knew why Marcus had been so afraid. He knew, just by looking, just by putting together all the clues he’d missed up until now. He knew, in a way no one else had ever known.

“You should’ve said something, before we started.” Sherlock whispered. “I’d have insisted on taking you home with me, so that I could have treated you properly. You deserve that. Your first time deserves that.”

Marcus stared at him. He didn’t know what to say in reply to that. For some reason he couldn’t explain, his chest was tightening, and his eyes were prickling with tears. He swallowed thickly, and closed his eyes.

“…No. You let me do it my way. You waited until I was ready.” He breathed in shakily, and lifted a hand to rub at his eyes. “And that’s… That was perfect.” He sniffed. “Fuck, why the hell am I cryin’…”

“It’s alright,” Sherlock hummed, leaning down to press his lips against Marcus’ cheek, “Shhh, Marcus.”

“Christ,” Marcus felt his breath hitch, and he didn’t understand, didn’t know why he felt like this. He covered his face with his hands, as he realised that his inevitable emotional breakdown had indeed arrived. “Jesus, what’s wrong with me,”

“Nothing.” Sherlock replied quietly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. His arms slid around Marcus, holding him tight, slotting himself against Marcus’ body as if he had been made to fit there, as if they had always been destined for this quiet intimacy.

Marcus huffed in a series of shallow, unsteady breaths.

“I’ll be okay soon,” he promised, voice muffled by his palms.

“Take your time.”

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I…”

“Don’t be.” Sherlock kissed him. “Don’t be.”

 

***

 

Gregson worriedly eyed Sherlock and Marcus through the windows, watching them as they sorted through case files. He’d been having no end of problems with them lately; they’d both been withdrawn, uncooperative with each other, and generally lacking in the exemplary work ethic they usually displayed.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?”

He looked up as Watson entered his office. “Yeah, yeah, sit down.”

Watson did, frowning minutely. “What’s this about?”

He sighed, and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Listen, I don’t like to put you in this position, but… do you know what’s going on with Marcus and Sherlock? I get the feeling that something’s wrong, which is rare, because in all the years that you guys have been working here they’ve never…” his voice trailed off, as he looked up at Watson.

She was smiling. It was a small, amused smile, but her eyes were sparkling as if she wanted to burst into laughter.

“…Is something funny?”

She shook her head slowly. “You won’t have to worry about them fighting any more, Captain. I promise.”

He frowned, “Why not?”

She cleared her throat, and stood. Her smile was growing larger, and she looked like she might start laughing hysterically at any moment.

“Just trust me on this one, Captain,” she said, and turned to go.

He watched her leave, feeling very confused. Then he looked over at Marcus and Sherlock; they were standing closer, now, than they had been before. It was only when he saw a smile, tender and gentle, bloom on Sherlock’s face as he looked at Marcus, that the realisation hit him.

He knew that expression. He knew what it meant.

“Well,” he said aloud, utterly aghast, “I did not see that coming.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was darn important; because your first time isn't always magical and perfect, and familial homophobia is a very real thing that many men and women experience.... and this may just be fanfiction, but by gosh I'm gonna use my stories to do justice to the real-life experiences of queer people  
> *slams fist down on table*
> 
> aNYWAY, hope you enjoyed~ <3  
> thank you for reading


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